“It would seem that I have come over very weak and unsteady of a sudden—a most peculiar feeling.” She opened her eyes and offered a wan smile. “You are most attentive. If not for you, I surely would have suffered an injury.”
“Your kindly opinion is welcome,” replied Giles, “but in truth, if I had been more attentive, I might have seen that you have had nothing to eat or drink and we have been walking all day.”
Haven sat up slowly, clutching her head. “It is true—I am somewhat famished.”
“We must find water.” Giles stood up and looked around as if hoping to catch a sparkling glimpse nearby. “That, I think, must come before we attempt another leap.”
“You are right, of course.” She raised a hand and he helped her to her feet. “We should have reached the ley long before now, I do readily confess it.” She looked around at the wide and unvarying landscape and the sun now beginning its downward descent towards the west. “I cannot think where we might have gone wrong.” She turned to him. “Poor Giles, I fear I have led us both astray. It is all my doing and I most heartily regret it. I am sorry.”
“Let us find water first,” he said, brushing aside her apology. “Then we can think what is to be done.”
“Very sensible. Lead the way you think best.”
“There appears to be a higher hill just beyond the near coombe.” He pointed to the north, where a short distance away a broad plain rose above the surrounding hilltops. “Perhaps we might see more from there.”
He led and Haven followed. They reached the bottom of the shallow valley and were just about to start up the long, sloping hillside when Haven gave out a sighing, “Oh-h-h!”
Giles swung around just in time to catch her again. This time he did not ease her to the ground, but bore her up into his arms and proceeded to carry her to the top of the ridge, where he laid her down in the grass.
She stirred then and came to herself once more. “Oh,” she sighed. “This is most discomfiting, and I do apologise. I am much obliged for your care.”
“You need water is all, my lady. That will put you right as rain.”
“If I may rest a little—” She stopped. Giles had turned his face away to the northwest. “What is it? Did you see something?” She pushed herself up on her elbows. Giles was gazing along the floor of the valley they had just quit; his jaw was set and face hard.
Haven turned to see what he was looking at: six riders on horses little larger than trap ponies were galloping at speed down the valley towards them. The dull thump of the horses’ hooves on the soft earth reached them, and a moment later they were staring into the faces of six hard-eyed men covered in black hair in the form of fur caps, long braids, and drooping moustaches; all carried short curved swords, spears, and knives strapped to their chests. The warriors appeared to be astonished at what they had captured.
“Who can they be?” whispered Haven, a shudder passing through her.
Giles made no answer but took Haven’s arm and pulled her behind him as the riders pounded to a halt at the foot of the hill. Aside from the swords, knives, and pikes—each with a wicked, serpentine blade—three of the war band also had small bows made of horn and quivers of arrows attached to their saddles; all of them wore heavy leather jerkins that covered them from neck to knee. This crude armour was bedecked with iron discs or overlapping plates like fish scales. The warriors’ faces were dark and ruddy, creased by wind and sun to leather, and half hidden beneath the large pointed caps, the flaps of which hung down over the ears and nape of the neck; their almond-shaped eyes, set above high cheekbones, were small and black, hard and sharp as obsidian.
The warriors made no move but remained on their mounts, staring at the strangers with a kind of wary wonder. The only sound was that of the wind and the horses’ heavy breathing. This tense silence lasted until Giles raised an empty hand in simple greeting. “We are travellers,” he announced, speaking loudly and clearly. “We mean no harm. Let us pass in peace.”
The riders exchanged glances and one of them—a swarthy fellow with a round, hide-covered shield slung over one shoulder—spoke a command to the others in a rough tongue, whereupon one of their number wheeled his mount and galloped back down the valley. The shield-bearing leader then lowered his pike and thrust it at Giles’ chest. He barked a command halfway between a growl and a yelp, jerking the honed blade of the pike towards the rising flank of the hill. When the two captives made no move, the warrior gestured with the pike again and barked his command more insistently. So his captives would not fail to understand, two of his riders moved to take up positions on either hand. The leader warrior turned his mount and started up the hill; the flanking riders shouted and pointed, indicating that Giles and Haven were to follow.
“I am not going anywhere with them,” Haven declared, her defiance thin and uncertain.
Giles stood his ground and spoke up, saying, “We need water.” He knew the warriors would not understand but repeated his demand all the same. The nearest rider prodded him with the butt of a pike and, with a grunted command, urged the prisoners to fall in line. But Giles, mindful of the danger, refused to budge. Pointing to the flat leather bag hanging on the rider’s saddle, Giles pantomimed a drinking motion. “Water,” he repeated. “We are thirsty. We must drink.”
The swarthy fellow understood the gestures; he opened the waterskin and passed it to Giles. “Thank you,” said Giles and, under the gaze of the riders, swallowed down three big mouthfuls.
Haven watched him with an expression rare for her: respect. “Sorry, my lady,” he said, handing the skin to her. “I thought best to try it first. It is warm but good.”
Haven was no longer listening. She snatched up the skin and put her lips to the hollow bone opening and sucked down a large mouthful so quickly she almost choked on it. She took the next two swallows more slowly and finished by wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, then smearing the moisture on her cheeks to cool her face. “Thank you,” she murmured, then drank again and reluctantly relinquished the skin, whereupon the warrior wheeled his mount and repeated his command to move out.
“That was very brave, Giles,” whispered Haven as the troop started away. She gave his hand a squeeze. “I would have perished save for your boldness.”
“At least we know they don’t mean to kill us outright,” replied Giles. “We will get on better now that we have a little water in us.” He regarded her doubtfully. “Can you walk?”
“If I must,” replied Haven.
One hill led to another, and another after that. Descending each rounded slope was taxing enough, but climbing them took all of Haven’s swiftly diminishing strength. When at last she could go no farther, one of the riders took her up behind him on his mount. The other riders trotted on ahead, leaving two to guard the prisoners. Giles, beside his lady, stumped on in grim determination as the day faded into a silvery haze that slowly deepened and darkened, thickening with the approach of twilight.
As they crested one of the higher hills, Giles, his arm around his mistress to keep her from falling from the horse, exclaimed, “Look!”
Haven raised her eyes and glanced down at his face, stained red by the glow of the setting sun. She followed his gaze, and her breath caught in her throat.
The downward flank of the hill fell away, leading onto a view of an enormous, shallow valley with a wide river coursing through it, the water glinting like quicksilver. Yet, thirsty as she was, it was not the shining river that seized her attention and caused her breath to catch. Spread out before them, filling the great bowl of the valley on either side of the river, was a massive drove of people and animals: men, women, children, horses, dogs, cattle—in knots and clots by the hundreds, thousands, and more—an entire nation on the move, heading west into the dying light.
“God help us!” gasped Haven, taking in the sprawling spectacle. “What is . . . who . . . ?” She left off as words failed her. She turned to Giles. “Whatever are we going to do?”
Thei
r captors descended the slope and joined the migration. Hemmed in by the riders, Haven and Giles were kept a little apart from the greater mass of people on foot, but were close enough to observe that they were a squat, hardy race with straight black hair and black almond eyes set in faces round as the moon and flat as dinner plates. Their limbs were short and well muscled, and from what could be seen beneath the thick folds of their heavy felt clothing, they appeared to be stocky rather than lithe. For shoes they wore strips of hide bound with leather strapping so that, despite their immense numbers, they moved with an almost unnatural quiet. No one spoke, no dogs barked, no child murmured, no horse whinnied—all this mass of humanity and livestock flowed over the land as silent as the river beside them.
While the greater population remained unaware of the foreigners in their midst, every now and then Giles and Haven caught someone eyeing them with undisguised curiosity. Clearly, those nearest these two strange, tall, pale folk took notice, but none breathed so much as a murmur; the greater mass of people trundled on with heads down and eyes fixed on the next step ahead, and the unearthly silence prevailed.
And it soon became apparent why this should be.
As the leading edge of the great throng reached a bend in the river and started around, there came the fearful sound of a skybolt sizzling through the darkling sky. Giles and Haven, like those around them, halted in midstep and looked up to see a fireball streaking through the heavens, whistling as it came nearer. It arced overhead and fell to earth some distance behind them, striking near the riverbank. An instant later the thing erupted in a deafening, dazzling barrage of smoke and flaming fragments, heaving sparks and mud into the air.
Even before the explosion, the mass of people surged away from the strike, fleeing for their lives. Swift on the trail of the first, two more fireballs lit up the twilight sky, trailing white smoke and flames and filling the air with a vicious shriek. The explosions struck closer this time, and with the eruption of sparks and hot metal came the screams of unlucky victims.
The leader of the war party that had captured Giles and Haven appeared out of the confusion; he came shouting commands, and the warrior who carried Haven pushed her off his mount and into Giles’ arms. Then all three riders departed, abandoning their captives, joining the greater cavalcade of warriors streaming up the flank of the hill. Whatever war this people was waging, the enemy had found them again and battle had resumed.
More of the hateful, hellish missiles fell to earth, each one striking nearer. As the latest plunged towards them, Giles grabbed Haven by the arm and turned her away from the impact, placing his body between her and the explosion. “Whatever happens,” he shouted, “I will protect you!”
“Pray it does not come to that,” Haven replied, her words drowned by the thunder of the explosion.
Within a heartbeat, the river of humanity flowing around them was transformed into a fast-moving torrent.
“It already has!” shouted Giles as the surge engulfed them. It was join the surge or be dragged under. He pulled Haven away and held on tight. Hand in hand, they entered the flood.
CHAPTER 16
In Which a Snarky Attitude Is Discouraged
You speak English.” Tony Clarke regarded the elderly woman in the doorway.
“After a fashion,” she replied, her soft Scottish accent a pleasant purr. She had straight white hair and keen dark eyes behind round, steel-rimmed glasses. “Those of us brought up beyond the wall have a facility with languages.”
“The wall?”
“Hadrian’s Wall, dear man,” she said. “But did you come to discuss ancient history, or was there something else you were wanting?”
“Oh yes. Sorry—I was just so surprised to find someone I could talk to that I seem to have forgotten my manners.” He sighed as relief washed over him. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”
“Never mind,” the woman said. “Please, do come in. You’ll catch sunstroke out there without a hat.”
As Tony moved towards the door, the Scottish woman fished a handful of coins from a pocket and offered them to Tony’s young guide, who stood quietly by. “Thank you, Afifah. Here you are.”
The young girl accepted the coins and thanked her patron.
“That will be all today. Run along home now, you two. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The children darted away and the woman smiled to see them go. “We employ them to watch for travellers,” she explained, turning to Tony. “Are you coming in, then?”
“Yes, thank you.” Tony stepped into what appeared to be a modest bookshop with shelves lining three walls. There was a grouping of soft chairs with a reading light and a small round brass table. “I really don’t mean to bother you—”
“And yet here you are all the same.”
Tony did not catch the devious twinkle in the old lady’s eye and stumbled over himself apologising.
“Don’t mind me, dearie,” replied the old woman lightly. “I was just having a bit of fun. Of course, you are here because you were brought here by our little reception committee. Welcome to the Zetetic Society. I am Mrs. Peelstick. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Glad to meet you,” replied Tony, extending his hand. “I’m Tony—Tony Clarke.”
“Are you?” said Mrs. Peelstick, eyeing him intently. “Are you, indeed? Younger than I would have guessed—but then everyone is these days.” She smiled, but her eyes remained keenly sharp behind her glasses. “I expect you are here about Cassandra.”
“Yes!” He gazed at her in astonishment. “How could you possibly know that?” Before she could answer, he said, “Is she all right?”
“Which question to answer first?” Mrs. Peelstick chuckled. “Your lassie was the very picture of perfect health the last time I saw her. And I know who you are because Cassandra told us that you would be looking for her. We expected we might see you any old time. She was in good spirits and fine form—a darling girl.”
“Thank God!” He sighed and felt the weight of anxiety lift away, leaving him feeling lighter than air. He swayed on his feet.
“Oh dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Peelstick, moving quickly to his side. “You’d better sit down.” She steered him to one of the comfy chairs. “Just you park yourself there and I’ll go fetch that cup of tea.” He collapsed into the chair as she scuttled off. “Won’t be a moment.”
“Thank you, I—” But she had already dashed from the room. He sank back and closed his eyes, relaxing into the knowledge that his beloved daughter was safe and well. He heard the clank of a kettle and the clink of glass and a mildly tuneful humming.
His eyes were still closed when Mrs. Peelstick returned bearing a tray with a pot, glasses, and a plate of sweet Syrian pastries. “Here we are,” she announced, placing the tray on the little brass table. The glasses, Tony noticed, contained fresh green leaves onto which his host poured hot black tea. “We serve it with mint in this part of the world,” she told him. “I think you’ll find it very refreshing. Please, help yourself to sugar.”
“Is this how Cassie found you? Serving mint tea and cookies?”
“Sesame and pistachio biscuits—delicious, have some.” She stirred the leaves around in the glass and then handed it to her guest. “Yes, I think Cassandra and I did share a glass of tea that first day she was with us. It is something of a ritual with us.”
“She stayed here with you?”
“She stayed at the convent nearby. It seemed to suit her better.”
“But she’s not here now?”
“Not at the moment, no.” Mrs. Peelstick spooned sugar into her tea and regarded her guest with benign interest. “She is on a mission, I suppose you would say, for the society.”
“I don’t understand. Why would she leave? Where did she go?”
“You’re not a traveller, are you, Mr. Clarke?” She regarded Tony’s expression. “No, I can see you’re not—at least, not before today. Isn’t that right?” Tony just stared, unable to think what to say. “In that c
ase, why don’t you just sit back and enjoy your tea? Rest a moment.”
“I’m sorry, but that won’t do.” Tony put down his glass. “I have travelled—God knows how—across several different dimensions, or worlds, or whatever to find my daughter. I want some answers.”
“And we will answer all your questions, never fear.”
“We?”
“My colleague, Mr. Hanno—he is the current director of the society. I’m sure he will be most anxious to meet you, and he can best explain. He is on an errand but should return shortly. In the meantime, why don’t you simply relax a moment and enjoy your tea?”
Though she offered an old woman’s saintly smile, Tony sensed cold steel beneath the grandmotherly appearance. Less than satisfied, he retrieved his glass, blew on the hot brew, and sipped lightly—buying a little time to take a breath and regain his composure. “Very well,” he agreed in a more measured tone, “perhaps you might at least tell me about this Mr. Hanno, whoever he is.”
“Brendan Hanno is the elected head of the Zetetic Society and its Director of Operations.”
“And he lives here?”
“In Damascus? Yes. In this house? No.”
“You said he is Director of Operations—what sort of operations would those be?”
“Why, the various operations of the society.”
“And those would be?”
The white-haired old lady with the will of iron gave him a sly smile. “I am not at liberty to say just now. Perhaps when—”
“I know,” said Tony. “Perhaps when Brendan gets here, he will tell me.”
“That’s right, dear.” She raised the pot gingerly from the tray. “More tea?”
“A warm-up, please.” He offered his cup. “Then, by all means, tell me about the Zetetic Society—if that is allowed.”
“No need to be snarky, Mr. Clarke,” chided the woman. “I am only acting in the best interest of our members. After all, I only have your word that you are indeed Cassandra’s father. Why, you might be anyone at all. You might be someone who wishes her harm—a kook, a stalker, or the like. Why, you might be a pan-dimensional murderer! How would I know?”